Meera stood for the fitting, her arms spread out, the shell of the silk tunic folded and fitted around her as singers fluttered like cheerful birds in her room. Despite the happy buzz of energy, she longed for the quiet peace of her garden off Frenchmen Street, longed for a morning cup of coffee and conversation with the old man on the corner playing a harmonica.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

She didn’t blame Rhys. She didn’t blame anyone really. Her job—the whole reason she had come to North America—had been to research the magic and language of the Uwachi Toma and record as much as possible. She had recorded many of Ata’s songs, studied her language, and agreed to take Ata’s memories after her mating ceremony. After that, her mission would be complete.

She’d been frivolous in New Orleans, spinning out her days of enjoyment and neglecting her duties. Vacation was over.

“Sisters,” Patiala said, entering the room. “May I have a word with my daughter?”

Cora, the seamstress making her dress under the direction of Chanak, their tailor from Udaipur, stepped away from her and removed the remaining pin in her mouth. “I have all the measurements I need, young lady. This is going to be fun. I haven’t worked in silk for centuries.”

The American singer had been an accomplished seamstress and literally worked magic with a needle back in the golden years of New Orleans’s Irin elite. She’d been delighted to create formal gowns and outfits with Chanak and his mate, Bhama. The three artists had been working around the clock to outfit the haven with dresses, suits, and other finery.

Meera adored Cora and had insisted that the haven seamstress make her dress instead of taking Patiala’s offer to have mating clothes and jewelry flown in from the treasury in Udaipur.

All the singers who had been hovering left Meera’s room, leaving Patiala alone with her daughter.

“You’re not happy,” her mother said.

“I’m just a little tired.”

“Is it Rhys?”

“No,” Meera said with a smile. “I am so pleased with Rhys. You were right about him, and I was being stubborn. He is truly a wonderful man.”

“He is your reshon.” Patiala’s eyes were shining. “Daughter, I would never have even dreamed of this blessing. So why are you still unhappy?”

“I told you—”

“I know you.” Patiala walked over and kissed both of Meera’s cheeks. “I know my daughter.”

“I’m worried about the threat to the haven. Bozidar may be coming. We don’t need to be having a party right now.”

“Do you think we’re any less ready for an attack because we’re throwing a party?” Patiala looked offended. “Daughter, you know me better than that. What’s really going on?”

“Are we going back to Udaipur after this ceremony?”

Her mother’s expression smoothed into practiced calm. “Do you want to do that?”

“Ata has agreed to share her memories with me. All of them.”

Patiala’s eyes went wide. “Has she? Does she know—?”

“She knows I am somasikara. She sensed it immediately. She wants to give me the whole of her memories. Everything. She wants to be released from this life so she can die and join her people.”

Patiala let out a long breath. “Have you agreed to this?”

“I have.”

“You’ll need to wait until after your mating. Magic like she is asking—”

“Will be exhausting. I know. But I’ll be mated to Rhys when it happens. I’ll be able to draw from his magic too.”

“This time line concerns me, Meera. A mating ceremony while there is a threat against the haven is… troubling. Asking you to do a memory spell while we’re still under threat—”

“Maybe Ata knows something we don’t.”

“That’s possible.”

Meera could tell her mother wasn’t convinced. “She has martial magic, Mata. Powerful spells I’ll be able to teach to other singers. While I don’t anticipate using that magic, I do see the necessity of it for now.”

Patiala smiled. “So the storehouse of Irina martial knowledge will reside in the memories of a staunch pacifist? Surely the Creator laughs.”

“I would never withhold knowledge my sisters needed.”

“No, but you’ll be cautious distributing it, won’t you?” Patiala took a deep breath. “Perhaps that is as heaven would want. We don’t know what kind of magic she wields. Whatever it was led to five hundred years of peace on this continent, the longest stretch any of our people have gone without war. So perhaps it is wise to hold this knowledge close.”

“Five hundred years of peace,” Meera mused. “I can’t imagine such a gift.”

“But every gift has a price, doesn’t it?” Patiala tucked a long lock of Meera’s hair behind her ear. “We don’t know what the price of that peace was. Has she spoken about the Fallen-slaying magic the legends talk about?”

“She said only that peace was achieved by making the Fallen very afraid.”

Patiala’s gaze turned inward. “What do the Fallen fear?”

“Nothing. Not as far as we know. But I do not doubt her magic.”

“And only a mated pair can perform this magic?”

“I only know Ata’s mate was a part of whatever spell killed Nalu. Akune, her mate, is dead, though Ata says she’ll be able to teach Rhys what magic he needs to perform just like she can teach me.”

Her mother’s eyes shone. “So my daughter would become an angel-slayer with the heavenly blade of her voice.”

Meera kept her shoulders straight. “Yes.”

“Another burden.”

“Knowledge is never a burden.”

“What an incredibly stupid thing to say.” Patiala spoke sharply. “Of course it can be a burden. Knowledge is the greatest burden there is, and you’ve been loaded down with it since before you could speak.”

“Mata—”

“This is why you are unhappy, isn’t it? It isn’t the responsibilities of mating or the man you’ve chosen. It’s the weight of more knowledge. More magic.”

Meera said nothing. What could she say? It was arrogance to say a gift was too heavy. It felt ungrateful.

“I wish I could bear some of this for you,” Patiala said. “But I am not you. I cannot keep the knowledge as you can. I wish I could.”

“Hopefully Rhys and I can teach the magic to you and father. After all, mated warriors would be the natural practitioners of magic like this.”

“We would be grateful. We would use it wisely.” Patiala squeezed Meera’s shoulders. “Speaking of mated warriors, when do Damien and Sari arrive in New Orleans?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Patiala smiled. “You and Rhys should go into the city tonight. Stay at your house. Rest and spend some time away from here.”

Meera frowned. “There is still so much to do.”

“Nothing we can’t handle. Go. Enjoy your house. Have some fun. Go dancing.”

Meera hugged her mother. “Thank you.”

“And to answer your earlier question, we go back to Udaipur when you want to return, Somasikara. Your retinue follows you, not the other way round. Being Anamitra’s heir has enough responsibilities. You need to take advantage of the privileges when you can.”

* * *

Rhys drove her car back to New Orleans, and Meera tilted the passenger seat back, left the windows down, and reveled in the feeling of the soft breeze threading through her hair. Not even the creepy smile and wave from the old man by the river could spoil her mood. That morning he was wearing a red baseball cap. Was it her imagination, or had he looked younger than the previous week?

She was imagining things. She had to be. They had checked the old man. He was human. Just a human. She closed her eyes as she turned her face to the sun and breathed deeply.

“I love to see you like this,” Rhys said.

“Lazy?”

“Relaxed.” He reached for her hand. “I don’t think anyone would ever call you lazy.”

“I feel like I’m going on holiday.”

“Sometimes going home can feel like that. I spend plenty of time for my work traveling. I know what you mean.”

She turned to him. “Where is home for you?”

“Ah…” He scratched his beard. “England for a long time, even though I didn’t like it much. Now Istanbul mostly feels like home. And once we’re mated, you’ll be my home.”

“A person can’t be a home, Rhys.”

“Of course they can.”

“We all need roots, and you—”

“You’re worried about me living in Udaipur because I’ve never been there. I’m telling you it won’t be a problem.”

“It’s very formal. And the level of ceremony is oppressive. And the history—”

“I know all that.” He reached for her hand again. “I know it. And when it gets oppressive, we’ll run away for a bit.”

“Are you going to be bored?”

His eyes went wide. “Heaven above, of course not. I’ve heard about the library there. I can’t even imagine being bored. What are you talking about?”

Meera smiled and brought his hand up to kiss his knuckles. “You’re perfect for me. I’d be irritated that my mother was so right, but I’m too pleased.”

“I just want the stress of all this to pass so we can get back to focusing on what we’re both after.” He steered the car toward the highway.

“Memorizing the other forty scrolls of magical congress?”

Rhys nearly swerved off the road. “You blasted woman.”

She took off her sunglasses and blinked innocently. “What? That wasn’t what you were thinking?”

“I was thinking about finding more biscuits and gravy, but I like your suggestion more.”

* * *

They walked down Frenchmen Street, hand in hand, enjoying the spill of music in the night air and the buzzing crowd that had drifted over from the French Quarter. It was Wednesday night in the Faubourg Marigny. Not too busy. Not too quiet.

Meera loved the energy. She always had. She felt buoyant. Light.

She almost overlooked the shadowed presence on the edge of Washington Square.

She stopped in the middle of the street and turned.

Rhys, who’d been listening to a brass band on the corner, came to attention. “What is it?”

“Vasu.”

He grimaced. “Won’t that damn angel—”

“Stop.” She held up her hand. “Something is different.” She dropped Rhys’s hand and walked toward the sidewalk surrounding the park. Artists were packing up their canvases for the day and tourists walked hand in hand, but Meera’s eyes were locked on two huddled figures on the sidewalk.

She walked over to them.

Vasu looked up, his face swathed in rags and his appearance changed to the face of a grizzled old man. “Did you forget me?”

“Of course not. Vasu—”

“What power have you been tempting, Meera Bai?” His voice was guttural and harsh. His elbow nudged the old homeless man sitting next to him. The man toppled over sideways, and the hat fell from his head, revealing grey skin and a blank, dead stare.

Vasu became a shadow when a pedestrian noticed the dead man and screamed. Rhys grabbed Meera’s hand and melted back into the gathering crowd. Meera heard the squawk of a police radio and two dogs barking.

She felt them before she saw them. Four Grigori making their way through the crowd, cold eyes locked on Meera and Rhys.

What power have you been tempting?

“Grigori,” Rhys said, taking Meera by the elbow. “I think Bozidar is in the city.”

“But why? Why now?”

“Maybe you should ask your friend Vasu!” He hustled her up Elysian Fields and cut through the neighborhood, taking the back way to her house. “Maybe it has nothing to do with him. But maybe it does.”

“The Grigori are still behind us,” Meera said.

“I know. Dammit, I don’t want them following us home.”

“Find me an alley,” she said, nearly running to keep up with his strides. “An alley, a warehouse. Somewhere deserted. We need to question them.”

“Fine, but my pacifist tendencies died with the human in the square. These aren’t lost souls looking for redemption. These are Bozidar’s soldiers, and that was a Grigori kill.”

“I know.” She’d seen the look of twisted ecstasy on the human’s face. Only Grigori could make a human happy to hand over their soul. “Find me an alley, Rhys.”

They turned to the right on Burgundy Street, walking against traffic as they passed newly renovated shotgun houses on the right and boarding houses on the left. There was little traffic, but lights were on in most of the homes, and Meera could hear televisions and phone calls in the residences around them. She could also feel two more Grigori join the four that had been following them.

They passed an old church on the left, its doors boarded up. Rhys ran past, then stopped and ran back.

“Here?”

“A church?”

“It’s empty.”

He reached up and tore off the boards covering the front door, tossing them to the side before he grabbed Meera’s hand.

“Once we aren’t running from Grigori, I’m going to swoon properly over that manly show of strength,” Meera said.

Rhys shot her a smile over his shoulder. “And I will properly appreciate your swoon.”

They ran into the shadowed church, and Meera nearly tripped over a curled-up edge of carpet.

She muttered a quiet curse.

“Don’t Irina have spells for night vision?” Rhys asked.

“Yes, but it’s not something I’m very good at.” She whispered a different spell, and six sconces down the center aisle sprang to life and glowed with a steady gold light. “I’m quite good at that one though.”

Rhys’s eyebrows went up. “Handy in libraries.”

“Exactly. No flame, just light.”

The church had been the target of vandals, and spray paint was scrawled over many of the walls, but the pews and the altar seemed to be in good repair. Meera hoped someone was caring for it, but she didn’t sense any humans nearby.

The Grigori, on the other hand, had surrounded them.

Two entered by the front door, and Meera heard two coming from a back door she couldn’t see.

“Four,” Rhys muttered. “What happened to the other two?”

“Never a good feeling.”

The Grigori had surrounded them now. The four circled Rhys and Meera along the edges of the sanctuary.

“I’m going to have to let these bastards get close to you, aren’t I?”

“If you want me to find out what they want? Yes.”

A long string of curses in the Old Language was the only response Meera got.

The men came closer, and Meera whispered a spell and allowed her magic to flood out. She spotted the first Grigori who felt it.

The knife he’d been holding dropped from his hand, and he cocked his head and locked his eyes on Meera, ignoring Rhys entirely.

“Rob, what’s your problem?” one of the Grigori asked a second before he felt Meera’s power too. Meera heard his knife clatter to the floor.

Rhys, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the spell. Since it was a spell to entrance an enemy, it shouldn’t have had an effect on him, but nevertheless, Meera was grateful he remained on guard. Sometimes magic like this unintentionally leaked over.

Four Grigori were walking toward her like she was a magnet. Meera forced herself not to panic. She knew Rhys had his daggers out. His control was impeccable.

“I’m here,” he murmured as they drew closer. “Relax.”

“Okay.” It was difficult, even knowing she was in control. “Stop,” she told the men.

They stopped.

“Kneel.”

They knelt.

There. That was better. Meera let out a long breath. She hadn’t forgotten about the other two Grigori, but she had confidence Rhys was keeping an eye out for them. She couldn’t sense them when her magic was this high, though she knew every Grigori in the neighborhood was going to be drawn to it.

“Who do you belong to?” she asked.

“Bozidar,” they said in unison. The chorus of voices made Meera’s skin crawl. Their audible voices were vibrant and smooth, at horrible odds with their soul voices, which scraped against her mind like nails on slate.

“Why are you here?”

“The city is ours,” one said.

“The city is ours,” another echoed.

“Fresh hunting.”

“Rich with souls.”

“We will drive out the other.”

Who was the other? Was Rhys right? Was this about Vasu?

Rhys spoke when Meera lost her voice. “When is Bozidar coming?”

“Our father is here,” they said together.

One of them added, “Our father will take what the great Nalu lost.”

“Bozidar wants to take over North America,” Meera said. “He wants to control it the way Nalu did.”

“Nalu?” one of the Grigori asked.

“The archangel killed by the Wolf.”

“The Wolf no longer hunts,” one of the kneeling Grigori said. “We are the hunters now.”

Rhys stepped toward one. “Tell me where your father hides.”

The Grigori looked up at Meera. His face was pained. She knew he was fighting a strong compulsion.

“Tell me where your father hides,” Meera repeated, reaching for the man’s outstretched hand. “Tell me and I will give you some of my power.”

The man let out a long breath. “He hides on the river where the water bends to—”

A shot rang out and a spray of blood puffed near the Grigori’s eye a moment before he fell to the ground.

Meera turned to the left to see Rhys already lunging toward the fifth Grigori on the edge of the room. She was distracted and almost didn’t hear the metallic cocking of the gun to her right.

She turned, dropped to the ground, and shouted, “Ya fasham!”

Meera heard the Grigori and the gun clatter to the ground, but the spell holding the three remaining Grigori around her had been broken. The men shook their heads and blinked as if coming out of a dream.

Meera crawled between the pews toward the Grigori with the gun. She’d unbalanced him, but the spell only lasted so long. She needed to get the gun.

She heard quiet scuffling on the other side of the church and a strangled cry before the scuffling went quiet. Meera didn’t stop to think or look. Rhys was a skilled warrior. Four Grigori were probably very little trouble for him, but Meera wasn’t accustomed to so many surrounding her at once without guards. She could hear one scrambling along the pew next to her. She spotted the gun sitting on the tattered carpet just as she saw a hand reaching down toward her.

She rolled to her back, grabbed the arm and pulled it toward her, slamming the Grigori’s nose into the back of the pew before she sank her teeth into the man’s forearm.

“You bitch!”

She reached for the handgun, and the cool metal touched her fingertips. She hooked her finger around the trigger guard and spun the gun into her hand, sweeping her arm up and pointing it at the Grigori whose blood was spraying over her from a broken nose.

Without hesitation, Meera aimed the gun at the center of the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. The shot hit her target and he fell forward, his shoulders hanging over the back of the old wooden bench.

Meera scooted under the pew, rolling toward the incapacitated Grigori before she pushed herself up and peeked over the benches.

Rhys was in the center aisle, a Grigori clutched by the hair, his dagger flashing down as golden dust rose around him in the flickering light.

She saw a movement to her right. It was the first Grigori she’d knocked over.

“Domem man!” The man froze.

Rhys ran to her, leaping over the pews and reaching for the man she’d shot. He was already beginning to rouse himself. Gunshots couldn’t kill Grigori unless they pierced the spine. Rhys grabbed the Grigori by the shoulder, flipped him over, and slammed his silver knife into the back of the man’s neck, releasing his soul for judgment.

“You all right?” he shouted.

“One more.” Meera didn’t have knives and she didn’t particularly want any. Violence, even necessary violence, made her ill. But she was profoundly glad when Rhys walked over and finished off the Grigori who’d almost shot her.

Rhys reached out and took the gun from her hand. “Are there wards around your house?”

Meera nodded.

“Then let’s go.” He hooked an arm around her neck and kissed her forehead. “Let’s go before more come. We need to call Roch. This is far worse than we thought.”